


Guardians

by CaelumLapis



Series: Gotham [4]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Spoilers: Specific for Robin #72 and #73.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24698176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaelumLapis/pseuds/CaelumLapis
Summary: Tim can’t read her and she’s impossible to shake. He’s been trying for the past three hours.
Series: Gotham [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785148
Kudos: 1





	Guardians

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer is, I don’t own them, not even a little.

Tim dodges debris, racing toward the rotting silhouette of a tenement building. There wasn’t a question that he would patrol tonight, despite the warnings from his father and the extraction tomorrow. _This_ is why he’s here. He’s been on this guy for about fifteen minutes, and that Tim recognizes his face is frustrating, in many ways. 

He’s not entirely comfortable with how sympathetic he is to Helena when it becomes a habit to beat the same people for the same reasons. The figure ahead of him lunges left, stumbling into one of the gaps in the wall. His recovery is a second too long and Tim’s on him. The guy chokes off a scream, and it’s entirely possible that Tim’s hitting him too hard. Wouldn’t be the first time. 

Tim smashes a fist into the guy’s face, snapping his head back against the wall. He crumples into himself with a groan and slides to the ground. They’ve had this talk before, and they will again. Break a few teeth, tell the guy they’re watching him. Wait until he hits the next family huddled inside their cracking brownstone and takes everything they have. This is when it’s tempting to do–more. Find a more permanent solution to the problem. 

He doesn’t. Just stands over the guy, waiting until he senses her presence behind them.

“I don’t need your help.” Tim looks over his shoulder, at the jagged gap in the wall and the solid darkness watching him. She’s impressively good at this. He’s lost _Nightwing_ with less effort. 

Batgirl doesn’t answer him, and the comparisons run through his mind. Nightwing’s never quiet like this, as if everything ceases to breathe in his vicinity. Batman’s silences have cause, and Tim hears what he’s _not_ saying as loudly as what he does. Alfred’s pauses are well-meaning and intentional reproaches. Hers are different.

Tim can’t read her and she’s impossible to shake. He’s been trying for the past three hours. She’s rarely close enough to see, but he knows she’s there. If he were willing to consider all of the ramifications of that, he’d have to acknowledge the possibility that she’s saved his ass at least twice tonight. 

He’s not. 

She steps into the gap, and the urge to fill the space between them with some kind of sound is growing. He faces her, a street light beyond the building choking briefly to life. The flash cuts sharp lines into the shadows across her mask. 

“I’ve got this.” Tim nods to the guy at his feet who’s breathing with painful wheezes. 

She crosses her arms over her chest. He knows this one. She does this when she’s listening, thinking it over. What she’ll do with it remains to be seen. That he’s willing to wait her out suggests this guy almost outrunning him was more than just luck. 

He’s not going back. Not yet. Not to that look in Alfred’s eyes that asks him how much of a liability he’s willing to become. Not to think about what happens after the extraction, when he gets home. Permanent and drastic changes. He can’t afford to underestimate what that could mean. 

Batgirl’s watching him, and Tim’s done thinking about this. The guy at his feet croaks out a groan. Tim glares down at him. “Get up.” 

A second flash from the gap in the wall, and the guy sucks in a breath when it shows him Batgirl. He pushes up, swaying as if he’s just escaped a bar instead of a heist. Tim watches, satisfied by the wild look in his eyes and the way he keeps darting glances between them.

Tim leans in, close enough to draw a lingering look and make a point. There’d been kids in the brownstone, big eyes and pale, dirt-smeared faces. The guy’s eyes are just as big now, but it’s not likely that he’d appreciate the irony. Tim grabs his collar and yanks him closer. “Let’s _talk_.” 

Another punch to the guy’s side, followed by a muffled scream. Tim wants to believe that it’s possible this will be the last time.

~~~

He’s hunting through Grant Park in a quiet reconnaissance that could be overkill. Chances are that it’s just enough kill. There are too many places to hide here, and Tim wants to meet all of them. When his eyes close, which is happening now with disturbing frequency, he sees his father, the kids in the brownstone with their hopeful faces, and her mask. 

He knows she is behind him, somewhere. He can sense her presence, and when she finds a hiding place that isn’t empty, he can hear her. Or more accurately, he can hear what’s happening to who she finds. 

He keeps moving, ignoring the ache between his shoulders. Gotham needs more people to fight, not less. Drastic and permanent changes happen here every day, sometimes every second. He’s fighting that and fighting that he has to leave, looking for impossible solutions to both problems. 

There’s a garbled shout behind him, punctuated by the satisfying sound of her fist into its owner. A sudden movement to his left and he’s on it, chasing someone that he startled from behind the statue. The rest is–the rest can wait. 

Gotham needs him. 

~~~

There are finite limits to what can be reasonably explained as coincidence. Tim’s certain that they passed this point roughly an hour ago. He crouches low, narrowing his eyes at the open stretch of street in front of him. He lost the guy he’d been after. Batgirl was otherwise occupied when he slipped away. It should’ve been possible to lose her, but she remains difficult to evade. She’s very thoroughly directing his movements, and Tim can almost appreciate the expertise with which she’s doing it. 

Almost. 

He sprints for cover across the street, ignoring the protests from his body. Despite his intent and attempts to travel elsewhere, she has them skirting Black Mask territory and heading toward one of the satellite caves. He pauses flat against the side of a ruined building, eyeing the jagged structures around him and catching his breath. There are hours before dawn. He can’t go back. It is tempting to–to see if he can avoid her by means other than mere strategy. 

There’s a brief, scraping sound from above him, and he stares up at her, crouched on the rooftop in his line of sight. She scans left and right, ending with a full stop on him. 

There’s sparring and there’s this. This is close enough to something else to be a problem. He isn’t sure that he wants to fight her, and equally convinced that if he wants her to go away, that’s what it will come to. There’s very strong evidence to suggest fighting her would be a bad idea. It’s as compelling a reason as any to keep moving. 

He pushes off the wall and sprints for the next building. 

~~~

The cave is quiet and empty. 

Skree of a bat overhead echoes in answers around him as Tim tugs off his boots. He doesn’t touch the mask. The cowl _is_ Bruce, and he wears the playboy to lull Gotham. Dick’s mask is a formality. Tim’s stays on until he stops being Robin. It should be that simple. It frequently isn’t. 

He sheds his cape and sits on the cot, stripping off his gauntlets and resting his face in his hands. Breathing isn’t this difficult. Neither is–is being still. Alfred isn’t around, at least not in the immediate sense. Batman isn’t here. Nightwing is somewhere else. 

She’s here. 

He breathes in the scent of sweat and leather from his skin. He isn’t going to talk to her, not going to stand up. Not going to fight her, _is_ going to listen to everything telling him to be still. 

He can feel her watching him, and it– _fuck_ this. Tim raises his face from his hands, narrowing his eyes at the corner where he can almost see her.

“ _What_?” 

There’s a clinking sound as her belt hits the floor. She isn’t answering. Tim’s up before he realizes that he wanted to be, balancing through the shiver in his legs. She–she was getting ready for that. _Fuck_. 

He moves toward her, staring down the shadows as they coalesce from vague shapes into her very specific form. She’s completely still, watching him. He shifts to a fighting stance, almost without thought. If this is what it takes, he’ll do it. 

She watches him, silently. 

“I don’t _need_ a guardian,” Tim glares at her, clenching his fist against the twitch moving through his knuckles. 

She’s breathing soft sounds through her mask, and fury roars in behind his eyes. Tim swings up into the flat black of her gauntlet. He didn’t see her move until he felt the impact. He feints back and punches again. She blocks it, effortlessly. Tim lunges and she deflects it, watching him, _reading_ him. 

Once more, and her gauntlet closes tight and hard around his fist. He pulls back and drops low, kicking out while his hand protests her grip. She’s in motion then, twisting him around and shoving him against the wall, trapping his arms between them. Tim fights her, snarling promises of pain through his teeth. 

She waits him out, motionless until he is. When he stops, she releases him. Tim whips around and just–stops. Her mask is gone. The expression on her face is patient, and a little sad. Sobering. He can’t. Cass knows this. _Fuck_. 

As fast as it was there, the anger’s gone. He closes his eyes and just breathes, shaky and slow. He shouldn’t be in Gotham, but he doesn’t belong anywhere else. He doesn’t want to try.

When he opens his eyes, she’s watching him. She reaches up to touch the side of his face, and she’s not looking at him as a liability. She’s wrong. He wants to tell her that it doesn’t work this way, that he can’t fix this. 

He kisses her instead, a slow touch of his lips against hers, tasting leather where her mask lingers on her skin. She’s motionless until he backs off, crashing hard into the gap between what he’s doing and what he wants. When she kisses him back, Tim feels it in his chest, twisting tightly into something ugly. 

Quick dart of her tongue against his lip and he’s _done_ running from Gotham and from her. He grabs her shoulders and chases her tongue, digging his fingers in until the leather creaks, tilting his head into the tease of her mouth. Clash of teeth and tongues before a rhythm that banks the twisted heat in his chest, pushing it lower. 

Wet, breathy sound against his lips and she pushes between his legs, grinding up into him. He can’t–he pushes _back_ , bucking into the friction of her body and the taste of her mouth. She’s moving faster, arching against him with relentless motion that blurs pain and jolts heat through his spine. 

He catches her lower lip between his teeth, panting into muffled whimpers that could be hers, and could be his. She curls her fingers into his arms and breaks the kiss, making tiny, desperate sounds against his mouth. Tim palms the curve of her hips and pulls her closer, tight and hard as his cock pulses wet heat. He buries his face against her neck where the flutter of her pulse echoes his, riding out the aftershocks.

When he can breathe again, she’s watching him through lidded eyes, twitching energy beneath his hands. She hooks a leg over his thigh and squeezes _hard_ , her breath ragged as she rubs against him. He digs his fingers in and braces his leg between hers, flexing into the heat from her body. She bites sharp and fast along the side of his neck, breathing heavy and wet on his skin. She tenses, humming a broken sound into the side of his face as her body jerks in his arms, squeezing and relaxing until she’s still again, panting. She murmurs a soft noise into his ear and Tim stiffens.

Her grip on his leg goes slack and she steps back, sliding the mask over her face. Tim watches her, quietly. A soft clink from the ground as she picks up her belt, and she’s gone. It almost feels like what he wants. 

Tim moves over to the cot and sinks into it, rubbing a hand over his face. He closes his eyes to a rush of images; the kids in the brownstone, his father, her mask, the look in Alfred’s eyes, the expression on her face before she kissed him back. 

They chase him into sleep. 

~~~

Grant Park is heavy air and uneasy silence. He knows the park’s history and fixates on it, giving her instructions that neither of them actually need. 

“Six thirty.” The sound of his voice isn’t reassuring. “We’d better scout the area. My guess is they’re bringing a helicopter in. We want to make sure they have a clear landing zone.”

Thump of his boots into the grass, and Tim drops the pack from his shoulder. She lands lightly beside him, her mask expressionless when she looks at him. Tim swallows the rest of what he was going to say and looks around quickly, scanning each of the hiding places he found last night. He can feel her watching him. 

“We’re good to go.” Tim crouches down, checking the pack. “I change into civvies and I’m outta this madhouse.” 

It’s _his_ madhouse. He sheds his mask first, stuffing it into the pack. The thought stays with him after the mask disappears between folds of clothing. 

He can still feel her watching him. He clears his throat. “Would you mind?” 

She looks away and he stares into the pack, imagining the mask’s empty lenses looking back at him. He’s out of the suit as fast as his hands can move, telling himself that this was his decision. That he’s happy with it. It sounds hollow. 

“Let’s get this over with. You keep the costume safe, okay?” It’s possibly the most honest thing he’s said to her and it isn’t a question, even though he phrased it as one. She takes the pack and secures it beneath her cape. She understands. 

Keep Gotham safe for me. 

The whirr of helicopter blades reaches his ears and Tim stares up at it, watching it travel fast and low to avoid detection. 

Showtime.


End file.
